Nate had to set things right. If he’d still had a body he would have paced the floor as the news anchor detailed his sins.  Of course, he wasn’t entirely responsible. He, like Harry, was just an instrument of Charlie Bell’s revenge, but he was culpable none the less.

Desperate men do desperate things and dying men make rash decisions. Charlie had pegged them both.  Harry had been desperate and Nate had been dying. Charlie’s plan had been simple – if you believed in the paranormal and the supernatural.   

I have been wondering what, if anything, would make me blog again. Depression? Vacation? A broken television? A new computer?  Well two of the four happened and here I am. Just pinning a “while I was out” note to the blog-o-sphere. I will be back when I actually have something to say – or maybe sooner.

I have never been the Beinecke Rare Book Library

Except for the time when I was swallowed by that ugly whale.

Inside her belly I became Jonah suspended in a cavern of light.

Marveled at the glass cube that was her spine.

Swam up bathed in golden light, exploring my new home.

With each breath the beast and I became more unified.

Separate beings no more I would be the storehouse of her treasures.

But then she spewed me out, transformed, onto the blistering pavement.

I was all I had seen.

All I had touched and tasted.

Knowing the light streaming through the belly of the whale was as much a part of me as the lentil soup I’d swallowed at lunch.

 I submitted this old piece to my dog club’s website. The reply: “I love it but am afraid it would cause at least three members of the board to pop a vessel — especially the one named “Carol.

I put on two pair of socks and three pair of sweat pants and took Arlo for his pre-dawn walk. It was 3 degrees. Arlo is built for that kind of weather. My lips froze. When we got back I filled my backpack with the things I thought I would need at the dog show and dressed like the handlers I had seen on TV – dark colors to show off the white dog, sensible shoes, hair tied back so it didn’t fly around and distract the judges or the dog. I loaded the jeep with dog, crate and backpack and headed to Point of Rocks.

When I arrived there were dogs everywhere. All of the handlers looked the same. They had big hair – like my Aunt Gladys – they wore spandex pants and pullovers with pictures of Samoyeds embroidered on them. They were all named Carol or Judy. With the help of two volunteers I managed to get Arlo registered for the show. They gave me an armband with a number 12 on it.

“Put this around your left arm. You can take your dog into the judging area so he can get used to it. Have fun!”

For the next two hours Arlo and I walked, trotted, and stacked our little hearts out. Once I tried to leave the ring and Marge (Arlo’s breeder) screamed at me “Get back in there. You can’t leave until you are dismissed.” I obeyed. Marge is quite a commanding presence. That day she was wearing white, fluffy earmuffs that looked like they had been made from a badly behaved Samoyed.

Marge had thirty minutes to puff and fluff Arlo before the judging began – combing and brushing – talking a mile a minute. Arlo took it all much better than I did.

“Number 12 to the ring. Number 12 to the ring.”

“Oh my God. We’re number 12, Arlo.”

Marge lifted Arlo from the table and I made my way awkwardly to the ring, fumbling to secure my armband with a rubber band while guiding Arlo through an obstacle course of dogs and bitches.

“Here we go, Arlo. Just do whatever that dog in front of you does.”

Until she stops.

Watch her standing there.  

Tracing words with a calloused finger against a darkening sky.

A philosophy emerges behind her hooded eyes.

Angry seas rise to meet a falling moon.

blending the over and done with the never happened.

I play tag with forgotten names until 3:00 AM

while recollecting the precise details of the Rose Marie Reed bathing suit Aunt Gladys bought me when I was ten

the glint of the coke bottles I scavenged in the dunes behind  Buster and Ray’s  tavern

and the warmth of the pennies they dropped into my palm.

Is this how it happens?

Is this how it happens?

Sometimes

I forget you’re dead.

Those are the sweet times, those minutes between sleep and waking

Eyes cloak recollection.

I wrap myself in your memory

and see you as you were

I smile.

Memories

as sharp as your tongue

as bright as your eyes

as fickle as fortune

in this dream

your kiss is soft

your dark suit

unsullied

Some people have asked why this poem is so short. It was a short dream.